Tales of a Traveller eBook

THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER.

A few miles from Boston, in Massachusetts, there is
a deep inlet winding several miles into the interior
of the country from Charles Bay, and terminating in
a thickly-wooded swamp, or morass. On one side
of this inlet is a beautiful dark grove; on the opposite
side the land rises abruptly from the water’s
edge, into a high ridge on which grow a few scattered
oaks of great age and immense size. It was under
one of these gigantic trees, according to old stories,
that Kidd the pirate buried his treasure. The
inlet allowed a facility to bring the money in a boat
secretly and at night to the very foot of the hill.
The elevation of the place permitted a good look-out
to be kept that no one was at hand, while the remarkable
trees formed good landmarks by which the place might
easily be found again. The old stories add, moreover,
that the devil presided at the hiding of the money,
and took it under his guardianship; but this, it is
well-known, he always does with buried treasure, particularly
when it has been ill gotten. Be that as it may,
Kidd never returned to recover his wealth; being shortly
after seized at Boston, sent out to England, and there
hanged for a pirate.

About the year 1727, just at the time when earthquakes
were prevalent in New England, and shook many tall
sinners down upon their knees, there lived near this
place a meagre miserly fellow of the name of Tom Walker.
He had a wife as miserly as himself; they were so miserly
that they even conspired to cheat each other.
Whatever the woman could lay hands on she hid away;
a hen could not cackle but she was on the alert to
secure the new-laid egg. Her husband was continually
prying about to detect her secret hoards, and many
and fierce were the conflicts that took place about
what ought to have been common property. They
lived in a forlorn-looking house, that stood alone
and had an air of starvation. A few straggling
savin trees, emblems of sterility, grew near it; no
smoke ever curled from its chimney; no traveller stopped
at its door. A miserable horse, whose ribs were
as articulate as the bars of a gridiron, stalked about
a field where a thin carpet of moss, scarcely covering
the ragged beds of pudding-stone, tantalized and balked
his hunger; and sometimes he would lean his head over
the fence, looked piteously at the passer-by, and
seem to petition deliverance from this land of famine.

The house and its inmates had altogether a bad name.
Tom’s wife was a tall termagant, fierce of temper,
loud of tongue, and strong of arm. Her voice
was often heard in wordy warfare with her husband;
and his face sometimes showed signs that their conflicts
were not confined to words. No one ventured,
however, to interfere between them; the lonely wayfarer
shrunk within himself at the horrid clamor and clapper-clawing;
eyed the den of discord askance, and hurried on his
way, rejoicing, if a bachelor, in his celibacy.